‘Where’s I sittin’, Mr De Witt?’
‘At the harpsichord, Elzevir. Where you usually do when we dine formally.’
‘Can’t play an’ eat at the same time, Masser!’
‘See the effect of your Sam Johnson talk, Mr Oysterman? This is all for your benefit. He regards you as his patrons now.’
He gave me a dirty look – fully reciprocated – before swivelling his attention back and up to Elzevir.
‘No-one’s asking you to. You play first, and you eat later. Provided. of course, that there’s anything left, and you don’t…’
‘Miss a note – yahs, yahs, I knows de score.’
A sort of purring noise came from Mr De Witt’s throat as he turned round to address us again, indicative perhaps of a pun on its way.
‘In fact – he knows six!’ he said, what seemed like days later, wrapping the remark in loud laughter.
‘Twas tiresome stuff, and I could not be bothered even to feign politeness any more. Leaving Dick with the hollow-laugh duties, I tried to catch Eloise’s eye as she laid a dish of potatoes before us. Had my earlier faux pas been forgiven? Or was I still down there in the loving friend category, the romantic equivalent of banishment? ‘Twas hard to tell, for she looked at everyone except me; though I interpreted this as a good sign – she would not ignore me unless I was preying on her mind. Perhaps my faux pas had planted a seed there which was growing prodigiously. Whatever the reason, I determined to settle back and enjoy whatever meal was laid before me, in order to build up my strength in case I was capriciously called upon to satisfy her later, or whatever the verb was in America these days. I determined also to show off and whip out witticisms when the occasion arose – or talk for victory, as Sam Johnson had it – to show Eloise just how mean, moody and unignorable I could be when I put my mind to it. Yes, love like war was a wonderful game, and for a moment I was back in the Old Ship Inn, carousing with Burnley Axelrod. I suddenly wished the man were here with me now, so I could put my arm around him and thank him for pointing me in the right direction. This was living, all right.
Cranked up on Axelrod power, all my finer poetic feelings discarded, I beamed beatifically at the food as Elzevir piled it up on my plate. There was such a vast array of pies, roasted beef and vegetables that I could not wait to get stuck in.
‘Is that it then?’ I said at last, Elzevir having taken his seat at the harpsichord and cracked his knuckles. ‘Can we start?’
I took the coughs and awkward shuffling for a yes, and prepared to set to with relish. A clammy hand on my forearm restrained me.
‘Aren’t we forgetting something, Mr Oysterman?’ said Mr De Witt.
‘Are we, Mr De Witt?’ I sighed, putting my knife down with very heavy emphasis, ‘What, pray?’
‘Don’t you know?’ he said, removing his hand suddenly, as if remembering that I was a soldier after all, for all appearances to the contrary.
Frowning, I cast my eyes around the table. As far as I could see, he could only be referring to the salt or the pepper. Though having had enough salt to last me a lifetime, I sighed and compromised so far as to sprinkle a grain or two at the side of my plate, comparable in volume to bee dandruff.
‘Thank you for reminding me,’ I said acidly, preparing to set to again.
Clara giggled, and I looked up, catching Eloise’s eyes in frantic escape from my magnetic presence. They rested eventually on something behind my left shoulder, but I was convinced they had been feasting on me, in thoughtful admiration.
‘I did not mean the salt, Mr Oysterman.’
I smiled and shook my head in pity. These people were condiment mad. I picked up the pepperpot, waggled it slowly and deliberately in front of his stupid face, then sprinkled an equally miniscule amount on top of my salt, resisting the roguish temptation to dash a cloud in his face. I was about to set to again when Mr De Witt had the audacity to touch my arm once more.
‘For God’s sake!’ I snapped, slamming my knife and fork down on the table. ‘What is it now? There are no condiments left, man!’
‘My dear boy,’ he said quietly, with maddening self-righteousness, ‘You have forgotten to pray.’
‘Pray for what!?’ I shouted, almost crying with rage and hunger.
‘Why, for this meal.’
‘Didn’t Eloise cook it?’
‘Yes, but where do you think the produce came from?’
Produce, with its overtones of cant and humbug, was a word that made me want to spit.
‘From your farm.’
‘Yes, but who put those goodly seeds there in the first place?’
‘Elzevir, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘And where did Elzevir come from?’
God, I realized belatedly, was the word he was trying to eke out of me, but be damned if I was going to lose face by saying it now.
‘Africa.’
‘And where did Africa come from?’
‘You tell me.’
‘From God, Mr Oysterman, God.’
‘Good old God then.’
‘For you see, Mr Oysterman, here in America God watches over everything we do. We are not a trading country like Britain – we cannot import or buy enough of the things we need, so we have to make or grow them ourselves. We are subject to many vagaries; we cannot take anything for granted. We depend for our livelihoods on the beneficence of nature, and of His Holy Providence. Without his Grace, we are nothing. We must be truly humble, and constantly aware of His mercies.’
‘Amen,’ I said, opening my eyes, and picking up the knife and fork once more.
‘Mr Oysterman,’ came the by-now familiar reproach. ‘We have not yet begun. I was merely explaining the reasons why we pray.’
There was more to this praying business than I’d imagined. No wonder my parents had never gone in for it – it consumed too much valuable gambling and whoring time. Thinking that perhaps it would have been better to say grace while the meal was being cooked – indeed while the produce was being sown – I acquiesced with a sigh, and reverted once more to my humble supplicant role, torn between my duty as a British spy and my desire to throw over the table, Jesus-at-the-Temple-like. The hot meal was turning cold before my very eyes.
‘Lord, we thank you for blessing us with Your Grace. We look with wonder – nay, astonishment – on the glorious white potatoes, the ruddy orange sheen of the carrots, the green of the cabbage, the rich golden crust of the pastry…’
I lifted an eyelid to verify these raptures. It seemed to my possibly jaded European eye that he was overdoing it. Either that or he was describing the colours for a later still-life reconstruction by Eloise. I hoped we would not have to wait further while she got her paints and canvases out.
‘…and we can hardly believe that it is all the work of One Hand – Your Hand, O Lord…’
If horses prayed, I could imagine them offering a similar prayer of gratitude to Eloise. Reminded uncomfortably of what I was missing – of what even horses received as a matter of course – I slumped temporarily.
‘…but it is, so we can only be thankful that you have chosen thus to bless us…’
Either Mr De Witt was stretching out the prayer just to antagonize me, or he had never fully understood the concept of editing.
‘…and we call upon you to keep blessing our efforts, our crops, our livestock, our health, and the health of our good visitors today. And finally, O Lord, may we as usual beseech Thee to destroy, completely and utterly, the O’Sullivan gang and their foul offspring. Amen.’
This ending was a surprise, and I was still pondering its relevance to the meal when Mr De Witt nudged me.
‘You can open your eyes now, Mr Oysterman. The rest of us have started.’
Indeed the rascals had, and I set to ferociously in a desperate attempt to catch up. For the next ten minutes I became insensible to my surroundings, as I fed in a frenzy like that fearful fish, the shark. When my eyes rolled back to t
heir normal position, there was the odd crumb of pastry on my plate, and a vast amount of spillage on the tablecloth, almost a meal in itself, reminiscent of a dummy hand at whist. Slowly, I also became aware of tinkling music coming from the harpsichord. ‘Twas light and delicate, which only served to emphasize the general bloatedness I was feeling.
‘A Scarlatti sonata, Mr Oysterman. Is it not exquisite?’
I belched discreetly and looked at the others. Eloise was demurely picking at her food, looking very rococo; Clara, baroque as ever, was scooping up forkfuls of cabbage and tipping them into Dick’s mouth, in some sort of role reversal. He was a lucky dog to have found such an easy lover, I reflected, but I had hopes yet that my tougher nut would yield correspondingly higher pleasures.
‘Yes, exquisite,’ I said, unbuttoning my breeches surreptitiously. ‘But surely not quite right.’
‘Come, come, Mr Oysterman. Let us not be churlish. You did not expect to find such art and culture in the New World – thinking it was your prerogative – and so you choose to deride perfection. A little mean-spirited, I think.’
‘No, listen…’ I tilted my head and lifted a finger up to my ear. ‘…There it is again. A sort of slow, mournful rhythm he breaks into occasionally, with some very strange beats. I’m sure that such oddities are not to be found anywhere in the history of music, let alone in Mr Scarlatti’s very classical sonatas. Nor, I think, are words, for that matter.’
Sure enough, as we listened closely, Elzevir was singing something under his breath. We turned to look at him and saw his eyes rolling, as though his mind was lost in a spiritual ecstasy, even while his fingers played, more or less, Scarlatti.
‘Are you sure? But this is how he always plays it.’
‘Trust me,’ I said, ‘I know about these things.’
Mr De Witt looked reflective for a moment, then walked over to Elzevir and slammed the harpsichord lid down on his fingers, an act of violence which made us all jump, and aided not a jot our digestion.
‘Shee-it!’ howled Elzevir. ‘What dat for, man!?’
‘For not playing exactly the notes that are placed in front of you. You’ve made me look a fool, and you have let down America into the bargain.’ He picked up the sheaf of the score and waved it angrily an inch in front of Elzevir’s nose. ‘These are not for you to improvise upon. They are there for you to play exactly. Not a note more, not a note less.’
Elzevir tried to focus on them, but only made himself cross-eyed.
‘Ah’s do play dem exactly, Mr De Witt!’
Mr De Witt sarcastically peered deep into the score.
‘But I don’t see any words there!’
‘No’s. Dey my own invention. Get mighty bored udderwise.’
‘You know what a better cure for boredom is, don’t you, Elzevir?’
‘Eatin’?’ said Elzevir hopefully.
‘Working,’ said Mr De Witt, with near inevitability.
‘Seems dats de cure for everytin’ round here. But you’ll get ‘minishin returns, Mr De Witt, if youm push me too hard. I’s drop dead at de harpsichord if you work me harder dan youm do already. Won’t get a note of any kind outa me den – dis bird’ll be dead.’
‘Oh!’ I heard Clara tut behind me, ‘he really is the most melodramatic nigger I have ever met.’
‘’Tis something to bear in mind, though, is it not, Elzevir?’ continued Mr De Witt.
‘If yahss say so, Masser.’
‘A little more attention to detail in future then, and no – repeat no – improvisations.’
‘If yahss say so, Masser.’
I now felt damnably guilty for bringing the matter to Mr De Witt’s attention, and not at all clever. I considered an apology, but the ones I rehearsed in my mind sounded so mealy-mouthed I decided to remain quiet. I hoped, though, that Elzevir would not bear a grudge against me, as I did not fancy being vengefully throttled by him later. Fearing this, I got a terrible fright when Elzevir turned to stare in my direction, and I began to tremble in a most un-Axelrodian manner. But I need not have worried – he was only looking past me at the dummy hand of food in the middle of the table.
‘Dat mine?’ he asked Mr De Witt.
Mr De Witt followed his gaze over.
‘That’s your’s gross; but what you get net depends on how hungry the hogs are. You know they always have first pickings.’
I thought for a moment that Mr De Witt was referring to Dick and me, and I prepared to flare indignantly.
Elzevir nodded knowingly.
‘Ever get the feelin’ yah well n’ truly stitched up, gen’men?’
‘Oh Elzevir – you’re such a baby!’ exclaimed Clara with delight, ‘Isn’t he a baby, Dick?’
Dick, picking his teeth with his thumbnail, belched and said he was.
‘Take no notice of them, Elzevir,’ said Eloise, scraping the scraps onto her plate. ‘They just enjoy baiting you. Here, all this is yours. The hogs are fat enough.’
It didn’t look very tempting, but Elzevir was overjoyed, and close to tears.
‘Missy Eloise!’ he kept saying, ‘Missy Eloise, yahs an angel! Ah’s never gonna rape you, ever!’
Clara snorted contempt, and poured back another glass of wine.
‘Very well,’ conceded Mr De Witt. ‘Go and eat it in the kitchen though, and try to be a good nigger in future.’
Elzevir did not need telling twice. He reached across the table, scooped up his prize and left us to get on with our dining. Impressed by the humanity of Eloise’s intervention, I decided to honour her with a compliment.
‘The pie was delicious, Eloise. What was in it, pray?’
‘Squirrel.’
‘Squirrel!’
‘Yes, one of Dolly Potter’s favourite recipes. Take five squirrels, skin them, gut them, and bake them. I kept the eyes, brains and glands in though, just to give the pie an extra bit of moisture.’
I felt my gorge rise, and wished someone would take the plates and the remnants of the food away quick.
‘No one has ever liked that before,’ said Eloise brightly, buoyed up by the praise, ‘See, father, I can cook in a way that pleases our guests.’
Mr De Witt studied my face dolefully, and remained enigmatically silent.
‘Now, anyone for dessert?’ said Eloise perkily.
‘What’s in it?’ I mumbled through my handkerchief. ‘I mean – what is it?’
‘Cranberry pie, with larks’ tongues and custard.’
I let out an involuntary groan of disgust, and heaved discreetly.
‘Perhaps just some brandy for our guests,’ said Mr De Witt, coming unexpectedly to my aid. ‘I do not want them on the chamberpot when we need to be discussing business.’
‘Very well, Papa,’ said Eloise, only slightly disappointed. ‘Perhaps Clara will help me to clear the dishes away. Then we can all relax, and talk most civilly.’
Watching in relief as the table was cleared, I leaned back in my chair and sweated while the eyes, brains and glands settled in my stomach. Then, replete with the knowledge that Eloise was a true De Witt, I waited with trepidation for the joys of civilized conversation to begin.
16
Revolutionary Chat
‘So what do you know about our little revolution, gentlemen?’
‘About as much as you know about England, Sir,’ I replied, recovered from my queasiness and eager to impress Eloise with the sharpness of my drawing-room repartee.
‘And your friend?’
‘He knows even less than that.’
‘Well,’ he sneered, ‘they say ignorance is bliss.’
‘We are not ignorant of life in general, Sir,’ I snorted. ‘Merely of the political, social, and economic causes of this war, which, let’s face it, only a madman or a bore can make head or tail of.’
This riled him, as I had intended it to.
‘I am not a madman or a bore, Sir!’ he exploded.
A little
catch of breath, as of a daughter about to speak, came from my left.
‘Yes you are, father. You’re both.’
The wine seemed to have gone to Clara’s head. She was giggling stupidly now, and hiccups looked on the way.
‘And you’re a pervert!’
‘Clara, I won’t tolerate this behaviour. Why do you always act like this when we have visitors? You’re perfectly civil the rest of the time. Why do you take delight in showing me up?’
‘Old fart!’
‘Go up to your room! Now!’
‘Fuck if I will,’ slurred Clara, her head lolling around as if her neck had turned to rubber. ‘I want to stay and hear about the…’ First mighty hiccup, almost jolting her off her chair, ‘..what was it?….the moral, social and eco…eco…’ Second hiccup, righting her again. ‘..nomic whatever it was….And all the rest of that ordure.’
She stretched out this word in a most comic manner, as though she were actually chewing and smelling the word described. I had to smile in spite of myself.
‘Come on, Clara, I’ll take you up to your bedroom,’ said Dick, rising and rubbing her forearm, before bending down and whispering something in her ear that made her lips curl up at the corners.
‘Sit down you!’ thundered Mr De Witt, rising himself and thumping his fists down on the table as he did so, making knives, forks and spoons leap up like silver salmon. I managed to grab my fork mid-air.
‘Clara knows where her own room is. Besides, you’re going to stay and learn about the war, Sir, God damn you are! I will not have my country and my daughters trampled on by ignoramuses.’
‘Papa, desist,’ said Eloise.
‘Me desist? Why don’t you tell that sister of yours to desist?’
‘Clara, desist.’
‘Clara desist,’ mocked Clara, sneering at her sister. ‘Desist. Yes, you know all about that word, don’t you, sister of mine? Know all about desisting, don’t we, Miss Prissy Drawers? Desist, sounds like resist.’
Eloise blushed, but she was spared further attack. Mr De Witt was the main target for the night.
‘He molested me as a baby, you know.’
We all looked aghast at Mr De Witt.
‘Oh yes,’ said Clara. ‘Oh yes. Come on, father, tell everybody how you used to spank me for crying, and then a few moments later make me laugh by tickling me, so that I did not know whether I was coming or going. No wonder I have problems when a humorous brute makes overtures to me.’
Infernal Revolutions Page 21